His face is something horrible to behold. It would but harrow sensitive feelings to give a portraiture of it. Enough to say, it is more like that of demon than man.
And his speech, poured as in a torrent from his lips, is alike horrifying—admission of many and varied crimes; in the same breath denying them and accusing others; his contradictory ravings garnished with blasphemous ejaculations.
A specimen will suffice, omitting the blasphemy.
“It’s a lie!” he cries out, just as they are entering the room. “A lie, every word o’t! I didn’t murder Mary Morgan. Served her right if I had, the jade! She jilted me; an’ for that wasp Wingate—dog—cur! I didn’t kill her. No; only fixed the plank. If she wor fool enough to step on’t that warn’t my fault. She did—she did! Ha! ha! ha!”
For a while he keeps up the horrid cachinnation, as the glee of Satan exulting over some feat of foul diablerie. Then his thoughts changing to another crime, he goes on:—
“The grand girl—the lady! She arn’t drowned; nor dead eyther! The priest carried her off in that French schooner. I had nothing to do with it. ’Twar the priest and Mr Murdock. Ha! Murdock! I did drown him. No, I didn’t. That’s another lie! ’Twas himself upset the boat. Let me see—was it? No! he couldn’t, he was too drunk. I stood up on the skiff’s rail. Slap over it went. What a duckin’ I had for it, and a devil o’ a swim too! But I did the trick—neatly! Didn’t I, your Reverence? Now for the hundred pounds. And you promised to double it—you did! Keep to your bargain, or I’ll peach upon you—on all the lot of you—the woman, too—the French woman! She kept that fine shawl, Indian they said it wor. She’s got it now. She wanted the diamonds, too, but daren’t keep them. The shroud! Ha! the shroud! That’s all they left me. I ought to a’ burnt it. But then the devil would a’ been after and burned me! How fine Mary looked in that grand dress, wi’ all them gewgaws, rings,—chains, an’ bracelets, all pure gold! But I drownded her, an’ she deserved it. Drownded her twice—ha—ha—ha!”
Again he breaks off with a peal of demoniac laughter, long continued.
More than an hour they remain listening to his delirious ramblings, and with interest intense. For despite its incoherence, the disconnected threads joined together make up a tale they can understand; though so strange, so brimful of atrocities, as to seem incredible.
All the while he is writhing about on the bed; till at length, exhausted, his head droops over upon the pillow, and he lies for a while quiet—to all appearance dead!
But no; there is another throe yet, one horrible as any that has preceded. Looking up, he sees the superintendent’s uniform and silver buttons; a sight which produces a change in the expression of his features, as though it had recalled him to his senses. With arms flung out as in defence, he shrieks:—